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I’m in my backyard suspended a few feet above the ground in this multicolored fabric hammock listening to flutes. Sun’s out. Tiny fiery-red finches serenade one another overhead. I’m in cut-off jean shorts and a withering old tank top, and it’s 71 degrees. It’s precisely the sort of moment and vibe you’d want to relay to Bill Walton because maybe, out of everyone else on the planet, he would appreciate it the absolute most.

It has been less than an hour since the NBA announced that Walton died Monday morning at the age of 71 surrounded by family after a prolonged battle with cancer. The flutes are still fluting. The finches are still singing. And here in this hammock, I just replay my favorite night as a sportswriter in January 2021, the night when Walton called me, and for hours, he helped me understand his desire to own a broadcast, his insatiable appetite for music and movement, and how much he missed people in the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic.

“That’s all I want in life. Is more,” he told me three years ago. “More time. More life. More music. More games. More reading. More love. More everything. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

Lucky, yes, talented, yes — on a wavelength most wished they could operate on, undoubtedly.

When you spoke to Walton, he left you wanting more. Not just from him or his rolodex of insight into life and sports, but from your existence, too. He told me how when one is flying 30,000 feet over any state out West, you should occupy the window seat no matter what because the creation below should be mind-blowingly beautiful enough to occupy your mind for however long the flight may be. Ever since I have done my best to snag the window and peer down. And I always think of Bill.

I was scheduled to go spend time with Bill in March. We were supposed to hang out before and after his final scheduled Pac-12 game on March 9 when USC hosted Arizona on ESPN. He was scheduled to be on the call with longtime TV battery mate Dave Pasch. A few days before I was set to board a flight to Los Angeles, I received word from ESPN communications that Walton was expected to be taken off his final call due to health reasons. Walton didn’t want it set in stone. Not yet. He wanted to see if he would feel better as the week wore on.

But around 10 a.m. Pacific time on Friday, March 8, ESPN announced that Sean Farnham would be taking Walton’s place for the call alongside Pasch.

I spent much of the previous couple of weeks talking to friends, colleagues and family members about what the disappearance of the Pac-12 would mean to its most ardent believer. There wasn’t a day that started and ended without Walton believing that the West Coast wasn’t the Best Coast.

“He loves the West Coast of the United States. He has his own affinity for it, not just for basketball, but everything,” said Nate Walton, one of Walton’s four sons. “He used to tell us, ‘This is what society is all about.’”

His time as a star center at UCLA was transformative. He became a two-time NCAA champion, and his mind was opened to the experiences of others, people he never imagined getting to meet or know before becoming a college student.

“For him, that was probably the greatest time of his life in many regards,” Nate said. “He has been reveling in that joy of that period for five decades.”

So it should come as no surprise when Walton would swing away when given the opportunity to defend his conference and side of the country. After all, he went to UCLA but got a law degree from Stanford. His parents graduated from UC Berkeley. His brother, Bruce, played football at UCLA. His sister, Cathy, played basketball at Cal. His son, Luke, was a star at Arizona.

On Nov. 23, 2022, Walton and Pac-12 play-by-play voice Roxy Bernstein were sitting in the empty stands of the Moda Center in Portland before the start of the 2022 Phil Knight Invitational tournament. Teams were filtering in and out for shootarounds when Michigan State walked through the gym’s doors.

Spartans coach Tom Izzo spotted Walton from across the court.

“Izzo is screaming, ‘Bill! Conference of Champions! We’re fraternity brothers now,’” Bernstein said Izzo joked, referring to UCLA joining the Big Ten Conference.

Walton dropped his head into those massive old paws of his and groaned and grumbled. Izzo walked over and offered a fist bump to Walton and said he couldn’t wait to get Walton out to East Lansing for a game.

“Coach,” Walton deadpanned, “I don’t do truck stops.”

He didn’t raise his fist to meet Izzo’s, either.

“It’s everything he believed and stood for in putting his faith, trust and love in a conference,” Bernstein said in March. “And it’s essentially gone.”

David Ceisler, ESPN’s vice president of production for men’s basketball, said Walton always used to introduce Ceisler as “his boss” whenever they were at social or work gatherings together. Any time someone asked Walton a question about this or that, whether he would end up expanding his broadcasting horizons with the Pac-12 vanishing, Walton would toss out his right elbow and say, “You have to ask my boss.”

They met at the 2023 men’s Final Four to start sketching out what Walton’s theoretical schedule may look like without regular trips to Utah, Colorado or Arizona. Ceisler mentioned the Kansas-Texas game when Walton removed his tie-dye shirt for another shirt during the middle of the broadcast. Other regions connected with Walton, Ceisler said. They wanted a piece of his tenacity for the game.

In March, Ceisler said preparing for a Walton-less, Pac-12-less world was going to be “a very weird texture.”

For those who worked with him, the interactions you didn’t see on camera solidified his legendary status. Pac-12 Network play-by-play voice Guy Haberman said there was always a line of fans waiting to meet Walton after the final buzzer sounded. Some wanted autographs. Others wanted photos next to his 6-foot-10 frame. Walton was a pro at rearranging photos to ensure the most optimal arrangement, too. He wasn’t in a hurry to get out of any arena.

“Outside of the person who has to lock up,” Haberman said, “Bill is the last person out.”

Before the end of the college basketball season, Pasch was asked to try and comprehend a world where he wouldn’t hear Walton hollering “Conference of Champions!” in his right ear. Pasch said it’s there forever. It’ll never go away.

“It’s ingrained in my head,” he said. “I’ve probably heard it in our 12 years together, probably 10,000 times is an accurate guess. It’ll definitely be strange.”

Pasch provided a thread on social media of his 12-year run with Walton. The reach ranged from calls with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar to Walton driving a boat to interviews with Russell Westbrook to eating a flaming candle atop a cupcake.

“In terms of his personality, Bill is 1 of 1,” Pasch said. “He’s incredibly unique, and he’s probably the most eclectic and unique Hall of Famer in all of sports. There aren’t many who have had not just Hall of Fame careers yet been as interesting off the court as he has been.”

I’m still in the hammock. The flutes are still fluting. The wind chimes are dancing a little more excitedly now thanks to the wind. Bill’s signature sign-off on text messages — at least to me — always ended with “good and happy everything, forever.” In a world now driven by eavesdropping algorithms and artificial intelligence, I’m going to remember his motto and apply it as often as I possibly can.

In March, I asked Nate Walton how he thought his dad would handle the emotional toll of the end of the Pac-12. Like his old man, Nate offered a proper answer that rang true then and even louder and more fitting on Monday.

“Like the Grateful Dead say, all things have to come to an end,” Nate said. “I think he’ll revel in the fact that it was as great as it was for so long.”

(Top photo: Maddie Meyer / Getty Images)